


Departure

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prelude to the Flight of the Noldor, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm says his farewell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Departure

Tyelkormo lay still, as his breathing slowed, his head resting on Oromë’s broad chest. He felt the Vala’s fingers pulling lightly through his tangled hair, and closed his eyes. Beneath his ear he could hear the thrum of energy moving through Oromë’s body. It had taken him a while to get used to the idea that he could hear no heartbeat, even with his ear pressed to Oromë’s breast, but now the murmur of power beneath the Vala’s skin soothed him, even as it inflamed him. 

“You should come with us,” he said, on a wild whim, raising his head to gaze into Oromë’s amber eyes. “Journey with us across the seas once more.” 

Oromë shook his great head, his hand coming to rest on Tyelkormo’s waist. “I do not think,” he said, his deep voice almost amused, “that your father would much fancy a Vala in his vanguard.” 

“No, but a rebel Vala?” said Tyelkormo, his eyes brightening with enthusiasm. He pulled himself up and braced his hands on Oromë’s bare chest. “Imagine, Oromë, how formidable we would be – ” 

“Tyelkormo,” growled Oromë, and Tyelkormo subsided, dropping his gaze as Oromë’s eyes flashed gold. “Need I remind you what happened the last time we had a rebel Vala? And you would have me to follow in such footsteps?”

“No,” said Tyelkormo hastily. “No, not like that. I didn’t mean – not a rebel Vala, then, only a rebellious one. You have traveled before; come, why are you so afraid of breaking the rules?”

“This goes beyond minor rule-breaking,” said Oromë, sitting up. His dark skin glowed with flecks of gold in the dim light as he seemed to grow a little larger, and Tyelkormo fell back from him, almost afraid. “This is not mere mischief, this would be the gravest violation of our laws.” 

“Then violate them!” said Tyelkormo, loudly. “Why don’t you – Why won’t you – ” 

“You are angry with me,” said Oromë quietly, reaching out to touch Tyelkormo’s shoulder. 

Tyelkormo jerked back. “Yes,” he said. “I know you do not agree with everything they say. I know you do not agree with everything they do. Why not speak up for us?”

“I am not as powerful as my brothers and sisters,” said Oromë, but Tyelkormo scoffed. 

“You are powerful enough! Why did you not intercede?” 

“Because,” said Oromë, “I cannot – I  _will_  not – so alter the course of things simply because you entreat me to. I shall not intercede in such great matters simply out of love for one bold young elf.” 

Tyelkormo looked up at him. “Love?” 

Oromë looked amused then, rather than foreboding, as he pulled Tyelkormo back into his arms. “Do you doubt that I love you, my wild one?” 

“No,” whispered Tyelkormo, and buried his face in Oromë’s neck, pressing his lips to that warm skin, tasting earth and blood and metal. Oromë ran a hand down his bare back as he pulled him astride his lap, teasing him with lingering touches, and pulling him back for deep, clinging kisses that left Tyelkormo gasping and aroused once more. 

“You are trying to distract me,” he accused Oromë breathlessly, as Oromë slipped a hand between them to wrap around Tyelkormo. “You’re – ah – trying to – to make me forget…” 

“I do not wish us to part in anger,” whispered Oromë, as Tyelkormo arched his back, his knees digging into Oromë’s waist. “Let me give you pleasure, one last time.” 

“Don’t say ‘last’,” said Tyelkormo, his fingers digging into Oromë’s skin, his voice breaking slightly. “Please, don’t say – ” 

“You are leaving these lands,” said Oromë softly. “When do you think we will meet again?” 

“I don’t care,” cried Tyelkormo. “To fuck with these lands, I won’t miss them.” It was a lie, but he carried on despite it. “But you – I cannot bear it, I cannot  _lose_ you. I wish you could– ” 

“I know,” murmured Oromë, and he pushed into Tyelkormo. 

Tyelkormo cried out, clutching Oromë’s shoulders, and one of Oromë’s hands came up to cradle the back of his head. Tyelkormo leaned back into his touch, eyes closing and breath coming in harsh pants. 

“I will not forget you, my wild one, my Tyelkormo,” whispered Oromë. “I will not let your memory fade.”

“The rest of the Valar can hang,” said Tyelkormo, and groaned as Oromë thrust deep into him, “but I will do you honor, my Vala, my Lord, my Oromë – ” 

Oromë pressed his lips to Tyelkormo’s throat, and Tyelkormo went on, his voice cracking, “I pledged my loyalty to you, and I will do you honor in the new lands, I swear it. I will bring your name to new forests and make a great hunt for you.” 

“And I will be there,” said Oromë, low, in Tyelkormo’s ear. “I will be there in the baying of hounds and the thunder of hooves. I will be there in the blood of the felled stag, in the heat of its entrails, in the sweet marrow of the bone. I am the cry of every horn raising its voice on the hunt, I am the strength in your arm and the song of your bow. Tyelkormo,” he breathed, and Tyelkormo shuddered wildly, pleasure blazing through him, “I am in your blood, your breath, the beat of your heart. For you are a hunter, and your spirit is mine.” 

“My spirit is yours,” whispered Tyelkormo, right on the brink, “my heart, my blood, my body – all of me is yours, Oromë.” 

“Then you will never lose me,” said Oromë, and Tyelkormo cried out, his fingers knotting in Oromë’s hair as he came.

 

-

 

Curufinwë was checking over his armor, examining each plate and joint, searching for weaknesses, when Tyelkormo returned. He looked up as his brother entered, his quick eyes taking in the shadows under Tyelkormo’s eyes, the way he’d pulled his hair back in a loose knot rather than its usual braids, and the marks like fingerprints along his bare arms. 

Curufinwë raised his eyebrows, recognizing the signs.

“It has been a long while since you last frequented the House of Oromë,” he said, carefully cool, turning back to his task. 

“And it will be a long time before I do so again,” said Tyelkormo. His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. “I wanted to retrieve my bow.” 

Curufinwë snorted. “You have half a dozen bows.” 

“None like this.” Tyelkormo unslung the long bow from his back, but did not pull it free from its cover. Instead he laid it on the table, alongside the swords Curufinwë had been polishing. “I see you have finally finished work on Tyelpë’s sword.” 

“He will have need of it soon enough, I suspect,” said Curufinwë, glancing down at the blade in question. Its forging had been the nail in the coffin; the day after its completion he had woken to find his wife gone from their bed – gone from the house, returned to her mother’s people. He shook his head impatiently, putting the memory from his mind. 

“I half expected you not to come back from the woods at all,” he said, sliding Tyelperinquar’s sword into its sheath and running his polishing cloth briefly over the pommel. 

“You don’t know me very well then,” said Tyelkormo shortly. 

Curufinwë shot him one piercing look – was that grief in Tyelkormo’s face? – but Tyelkormo met his gaze steadily, and his eyes were quite dry. 

“I keep to my oaths,” was all his brother said, and ran a hand, almost absentmindedly along the covered bow. “Both of them.”


End file.
